


ease the tension

by skatzaa



Series: domestic Kendricks [6]
Category: The Scorpio Races - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Curtain Fic, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Hair Braiding, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-26 23:56:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16691395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatzaa/pseuds/skatzaa
Summary: just-ann-now said: You said you liked to write about hair braiding, how about Sean braiding (or, even better, unbraiding) Puck’s hair?





	ease the tension

**Author's Note:**

  * For [just_ann_now](https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_ann_now/gifts).



> just_ann_now I do hope you like it! Hair braiding is certainly a Thing for me, thank you for enabling my fic writing tendencies!
> 
> There was a post once about how maybe Sean was the domestic one of the two. About fifty percent of the content of this fic is a direct result of that post lol.

SEAN

When I return home from Hastoway, after several hours of negotiating hay prices with Colborne and Hammond, the house is still and quiet. Finn is meant to be coming over for dinner tonight, so Puck might be out buying food, as we are perpetually out of practically everything important. But she just as easily might be in the barn or visiting with Dory Maud and her sisters. 

I check on Corr, who is resting in his stall, and then Dove and Finndebar, huddled together in their paddock. Winter has settled itself upon Thisby in the wake of the races, and that means frost on the windows and ice in the water troughs and wearing the hat Puck knitted me two years ago. It’s blue and made out of the softest yarn she could get her hands on in Tholla. I like it, and it keeps my ears warm, so I continue to wear it despite all of the dropped stitches.

Satisfied that the horses will last until their evening feed, I trudge back to the house, the ever present Thisby mud sucking at my boots. I wash up at the kitchen sink, rubbing the soap between my hands until my fingers smell slightly more like lemons than dirt and hay. Then it’s little tasks around the house, things I know Puck hates having to do—washing the dishes, straightening the pile of boots by the door, starting a fire in the hearth—until Puck herself blows in through the front door like a thunderstorm, scowling at nothing in particular and stomping to demonstrate her displeasure. Her hat is pulled low over her ears and eyes and her nose is a fierce shade of red that leaves me worried about the cold that is undoubtedly looming on the horizon.

She sees me in the kitchen, putting away the dishes now that they’re mostly dry, and the storm doesn’t dissipate, but as I watch her shoulders relax and she unclenches her fists without seeming to mean to. 

“Sean,” she says, surprised enough to actually sound pleased. “You’re home.”

“Puck,” I respond, for lack of a better response. “How was your day?”

That starts the stomping again, though it lacks the same level of anger behind it now, and I don’t point it out. If she’s in a mood there’s likely a reason, but I also know to let her work through it herself before asking. Instead, I go out to the truck that Eaton sold us last fall and unload what she’s brought back—not much, really, but there’s a good roast for dinner from Gratton’s and I already know Finn will be bringing fresh bread—before starting on supper. With the things Puck bought, there’s enough in the house to pull together a respectable meal, and I’m happy to let Puck go work out her frustrations in the barn while I cook.

Puck loathes feeling trapped in the kitchen, both by expectations and unfinished chores, but I’ve found it soothing the past two years, in the way I know she finds it soothing to brush Dove out after a long ride. 

By the time the roast is in the oven, Puck has blown back in through the door, closer to the gentle summer rains that drape the island in dewdrop jewels. She kicks off her boots, half knocking over another pair by the door before she rights them. The jacket—a hand-me-down from Gabe, I think, or maybe their father—is hung on the hook in the doorway, and then she pulls off her hat, revealing the tangled mess of curls that was, with a lot of patience on my part and a lot of huffing on Puck’s, a braid this morning.

I finish washing the dishes I dirtied while preparing the food as she drifts away into the bedroom for one thing or another. She comes back out wearing thick wool socks and an old sweater that’s so big the collar tends to slip down over one shoulder and the sleeves flop when she moves her hands. I shut the faucet off and dry my hands.

“Sit by the fire,” I tell her, my voice soft enough that it isn’t a command. Puck sits on the rug, her back to the old armchair that we hauled over from her parents’ house when she moved out—though it’s technically Finn’s house, now. She crosses her legs under her, wiggling to get comfortable. I settle in the chair behind her and fish around between the cushion and the arm for the comb I usually keep hidden for this purpose. 

Most days, Puck can barely pause long enough to pull her hair back into a messy ponytail with whatever elastic is closest, but there are some mornings when I can coax her to sit and let me braid her hair back so it stays out of her face longer. The magic I learned from my father doesn’t work on Puck—and even if it did, I wouldn’t use it to try and control her—but that doesn’t mean I can’t try to braid happiness or patience into the patterns. There’s no telling if it works, of course, but I like to think it does.

Slowly, starting at the ends of her hair with just my fingertips, I untangle the braid and the worst of the knots. When one section is done, I move further up and start again. Soon, Puck is content and nearly boneless, leaning back against my shins. She keeps her chin tilted down so none of her hair gets trapped between her shoulders and my knees.

When I’m satisfied that it’s as neat as it can get, I wedge the comb back where I found it with one hand, the other sliding from the crown of her head to her neck. Puck makes a soft noise and tilts her head further forward—her chin must be more or less resting against her chest at this point. With her tacit permission, I begin working to ease the tension in her neck and shoulders, smoothing my thumb along her skin, dipping occasionally below the wide collar of her sweater.

The roast is still in the oven, filling the whole house with the scent of cooking meat. We need to add another log to the fire before it burns too low. Finn will be here soon, with bread and maybe also Jonathan Carroll or some other stray he’s managed to pick up. I need to see if Puck finished the barn chores, and how Corr is doing besides, with the call of the November sea still so close in both our memories.

But then Puck sighs again, a tiny sound nearly lost to the crackling flames, and I push all that away for now. Puck reaches up and rests her hand on mine. Outside it is cold, and the wind howls past the house, but she is here and warm beside me. I think, maybe, that’s all that really matters.

**Author's Note:**

> Syd: they took the armchair? Smh where's Finn gonna sit now  
> Me: dory maud gave him an ugly ass couch that was the catalyst for puck moving out bc she said she refused to live in the same house as that thing but finn loved it so much he couldn't give it up alksdjf
> 
> I'm not doing a great job of working on the origins stuff for the festival rn, but I hope this makes up for that for now and that you enjoyed it! Comments and kudos are appreciated but never required <3
> 
> Read on,  
> Skats


End file.
